


Reflected Through Time

by TheresaWritesStuff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Parallel Universes, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheresaWritesStuff/pseuds/TheresaWritesStuff
Summary: Molly Hooper buys a mysterious mirror from an antique shop, only to find it is not her own reflection that is looking back at her, but the dashing Victorian Detective, Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Something to spruce up the place

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a piece by artbyLexie here: http://bit.ly/2juIIeh  
> Requested by gcintia on tumblr

Molly trudged along the bustling sidewalk, determined to find something nice for her new flat. Just one nice thing to bring the room together. Something to make it feel like a home. Her landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was very sweet, but her flat still felt like just another place to rest her head. But seeing as she had no plans of leaving London any time soon, Molly was determined to change that, even if it took visiting every shop in town.

The wind picked up, sending a chill that cut right through her coat as it began to rain. The one day she left her umbrella…Quickly, Molly darted into the tiny shop tucked among the colorful awnings for shelter.

The bell above the door chimed merrily as she walked in, breathing in the dusty smell of old paper and antique knickknacks. She tried to remember if she’d ever noticed this shop before on her previous, unsuccessful trips around town. It was a quaint little shop. Narrow and packed wall to wall with assorted antiques. It was hard to know just where to look.

“Just a second! I’ll be right with you,” called the disembodied voice of the shop girl from somewhere behind an armoire and a rack of hand painted silk dressing gowns.

“Can I…help with something?” Molly offered, coming around the makeshift corner to find the woman in question perched on a ladder, shelving an armful of items.

“No need.” The dark haired woman smiled over her shoulder at her as she adjusted a mantle clock on the shelf. Satisfied with its placement, she grabbed the violin and bow next to it and slid down the ladder.

“So what can I help you find?” she asked cheerily.

“Um, I’m not sure exactly,” Molly admitted. “I’ve been looking for something to decorate my flat. Didn’t really have anything specific in mind…I guess I just assumed I would know it when I saw it.”

“Hmmm,” the shop girl hummed thoughtfully, looking Molly over intently. “I think I might have something for you. Follow me.”

She then turned and ducked through the narrow path of furniture, traveling further into the heart of the narrow shop.

“Um, alright.” Molly followed hesitantly.

“I have a sort of sense for these things. Makes me especially good at what I do,” the woman explained, plucking the string of the violin. “This needs tuning. Try to keep up. Just follow the sound of the violin. And try not to trip over anything.”

“Right…” Molly stopped short, nearly falling over an ottoman as she followed the sound of the shopkeepers adjusting the strings as she walked.

“Much better,” the woman sighed as she finished tuning with a flurry of the bow. “Now tell me what you think of this.”

She pulled back a tarp to reveal a beautiful antique mirror. Its frame was simple in design, yet elegant, the metallic frame polished to a shine.

“It’s perfect,” Molly breathed.

“I thought so, too,” the shopkeeper agreed.

Molly ran her hand over the frame, trying to get a sense of the size. It was just the right height for her mantle above the fireplace. Her smile fell however as the logistical part of her brain chimed in. “I don’t think it will fit in a cab,” she sighed.

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” the shopkeeper assured her. “We offer free deliveries on our larger items. Helps us stay in competition with some of the larger stores. I can have it there by this afternoon. What’s the address?”

“221C Baker Street,” Molly replied.

*******

True to her word, the shop delivered the mirror to Baker Street in a timely fashion with just enough time for Molly to set it up herself before dashing off to work.

Its shining frame was a welcome sight when she returned from a long shift full of reports and three especially heavy cadavers.

She hummed to herself as she made her way into the kitchen for a cup of tea, her newest bookstore find in hand. She read as the kettle boiled, intrigued by the author’s speculations on the identity of Jack the Ripper as they stated their case based on applied knowledge of modern medicine to what was known about his victims. As she poured her tea, she considered lending it out to the friendly detective inspector who came in to the morgue every now and then for a case. It would be nice to have something to talk about besides work.

As she made her way towards the couch, Molly nearly dropped her cup when she saw not her own reflection, but a striking dark haired gentleman in his dressing gown staring back at her from the other side of her sitting room mirror.

“H-hello,” she greeted tentatively, hardly believing what she was seeing.

He held a hand behind his ear, his lips moving silently.

“You can’t hear me. Of course not,” she sighed. “Hold on. Stay right there!”

She held up a finger before moving away to retrieve a notepad from the kitchen. Pen in hand, she approached the mantel of her fireplace and began to write.

_Hello!_

She held up her note pad for him to see. The man tilted his head as he read her note, a crooked smile on his lips.

“It’s backwards, isn’t it?” Molly laughed sheepishly. He seemed to be laughing with her.

Carefully, Molly wrote a new message, the words flipped so that he could read it more easily.

_My name is Molly Hooper._

She watched as he produced a fountain pen and scrawled a reply.

_Sherlock Holmes. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper_

 

Sherlock Holmes…The name suited him well.  She poised her pen over the paper but soon noticed he was scrawling another message.

_Tell me honestly, Miss Hooper. Have I fallen into some bizarre Dickensian dream?_

Molly smiled. _Not to my knowledge…_

Molly scrunched her nose in displeasure at her reversed penmanship. Molly held up her index finger and raced off to the loo, much to Mr. Holmes’ confusion. However, he soon understood her thinking as she returned with her makeup mirror and placed it on the mantle beside her.

She glanced up as she took her pen in hand once more. Mr. Holmes gave her a nod, confirming her plan successful.

Satisfied, she began to write, _I may be rubbish at writing backwards, but I am no figment of your imagination._

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he read.

_I suppose not, for my imagination was never quite so vivid. Your flat is rather unusual, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Where are you?_

Molly raised an eyebrow.

_London. And you are one to ~~talk~~ write, sir. Your sitting room looks like a museum exhibit. No offense. _

He blinked as he read her message, pressing his lips together in thought before he penned his reply.

_Perhaps the more pressing question is when are you, Miss Hooper?_

Molly’s eyes went wide.

_September 23, 2009. And you?_

She held her breath as she watched him write.

_September 23, 1889._

“Oh dear,” she whispered.

Image credit to artbylexie. (Check out her work. It is amazing!)


	2. Theories and investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock continue their conversation, speculating about the mirror's workings. Molly goes back to the shop for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter but things should start moving along from here (hopefully)
> 
> Unbeta'd. Mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!

Molly backed away from the mantel and began to pace, trying to process this information.

“Okay,” she breathed. “You went shopping for a little home décor, and brought home a rift in the space time continuum. No big deal. Happens all the time…On Doctor Who…” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration before glancing back at the now slightly concerned looking Mr. Holmes. “This is a dream. I’m dreaming. That’s it. There’s no way he’s real. He’s too hot to be real! My brain is just now catching up to the insanity of this whole situation. I’ve just been watching too many late night Sandra Bullock movies on the telly…”

Molly pinched her arm. Not dreaming…

“That never works…why do people in movies always do that if it never works…” she muttered.

She noticed Mr. Holmes was now waving gently, trying to catch her attention again.

Tentatively she approached her mantel once again. Mr. Holmes held up his latest note.

_I apologize for causing you distress. I thought it a fairly obvious deduction, given the already peculiar situation_

Molly smiled sheepishly and wrote her reply.

_It’s fine. Just a bit of a delayed reaction. It’s been a long day…How are you so calm about all this?_

He smiled as he put pen to paper.

_I’ve found in my years of deductive reasoning it is beneficial to never rule out your best evidence, no matter how improbable the answer it leads to may seem. Would you care to elaborate on your Dr. Wu’s theories?_

Molly raised an eyebrow, prompting him to add to his statement.

_I’ve also found it useful in my line of work to have lip reading among my personal skillset. Please do keep writing, as I have yet to fully master the art._

She smiled despite her heart still racing from her sudden adrenaline spike.

_Doctor Who is a character in a popular series here. He’s a time traveler. Once referred to time as being made up of a ball of “wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff” rather than a straight line as we perceive it. Others have likened time to being like a fabric. It gets a bit complicated from there. My best guess is that this mirror is, for whatever reason, acting as a bridge from where I am in time to where you are._

He steepled his fingers under his chin as he read, considering the information.

_A probable explanation for an improbable occurrence. Well done, Miss Hooper._

She felt herself blush under his praise.

_Molly, please._

She watched as his mouth silently formed her name, testing it with his tongue.

_Very well. Then I must also insist you call me Sherlock._

She pressed her lips together as she wrote.

_That I can do, Sherlock._

 

The next morning Molly set out first thing to pay another visit to the little antique shop. She wanted answers, and the one most likely to be able to give them to her was the shop girl who sold her the mirror in the first place. Handpicked it for her, in fact. It was all a little strange looking back on the moment, Molly thought.

Not that she was all together unhappy with the way things had unfolded. After she recovered from the shock of living in a real life sci-fi plot device, she found she rather enjoyed Sherlock Holmes and his company. They’d talked all night, writing notes back and forth to each other beside the mantel. During the course of the evening, she’d pulled up one of her high bar stools and grabbed a new notebook from her kitchen. A notebook which was now nearly filled. Which reminded her, she needed to stop and buy more notebooks before she returned home. Assuming her new friend would be there again when she returned home that evening.

She couldn’t be sure how long this strange rift in time would last, but she and Sherlock determined that it had started at sundown that night.  The reflection of her own sitting room had returned when she awoke that morning, leaving her uncertain if she would see the handsome detective on the other side of her mirror again, but she was hopeful. They’d proposed several theories as to how it had occurred, including everything from a multi-dimensional rift, to the aurora borealis, to as simple as a wrinkle in time. They never did settle on an answer but rather had moved on to other topics of conversation. It was all-together unreal, and yet it was the most at home she had felt since she’d moved to London.

After two passes up and down the street she found the narrow shop from the day before and stepped inside.

A stout looking gentleman with thinning hair stood at the front counter, fixing a pocket watch.

“Good afternoon, miss. How can I assist you today?” He asked jovially.

“Um, I had a couple questions about a purchase I made yesterday. A mirror. I got it home and I…realized I forgot to ask what sort of polish it would need...Is the woman who was here yesterday working today by chance? She’s the one who sold it to me. I can’t remember the type of metal she said it was, but I’m sure she’d remember,” Molly explained as she approached the counter.

“We were closed yesterday. I think you may have us confused with the shop a few blocks over. Happens all the time,” the man replied gently as he fished out a screwdriver from his tool bag.

“No I’m sure it was here. I even have this card from the delivery man.” Molly handed the man the business card in question from her purse.

The man looked over the card and slid it back to her. “The Kim’s and I worked out a deal with a third party delivery service. He must have handed you the wrong card.”

“No, I’m sure I was here. In this very shop. Yesterday.” Molly insisted adamantly. She took a deep breath before she continued. “I just need to speak to the woman that sold me the mirror. I can come back another time if she’s not working but she’s the onl—“

“Miss, I’m sorry. I don’t like to argue with a customer, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. There is no woman. The only ones who work here are myself and on occasion my brother Larry, and yesterday we were both out for Great Aunt Muriel’s wedding reception up in Liverpool. Try asking at Mrs. Kim’s down the block.”

Seeing as she was getting nowhere, Molly thanked him and exited the shop. She shook her head to clear it and looked at the awnings surrounding the shop entrance. They were the same ones from the day before.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” she murmured to herself with a final glance back at the narrow shop before she walked on.


	3. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly make a discovery about their unusual situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Will attempt to fix as I catch them.
> 
> Definitely the most sci-fi thing I have written thus far. Hoping my attempt at explaining the "science" behind it makes a sort of sense. I was an art major in college...
> 
> Love to hear your thoughts in the comments as always! More coming at some point soon as long as schedule allows...

  
Molly returned home weary and disheartened. She had stopped in to the Kim’s shop down the street, just to be sure. As she suspected, she had never set foot in that shop in her life. It was a spacious store front with large display windows facing the street, specializing mostly in vintage lawn ornaments. Which was all good and fun…but it wasn’t where she had purchased the mirror.

She sighed as she kicked off her shoes, carrying her parcels of takeaway, notebooks, and the new tea set that Mrs. Kim had practically forced her to buy into the kitchen.

As she crossed her sitting area she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the dashing Victorian detective who was energetically pacing his own flat, just on the other side of her mirror. He was engrossed in the stack of papers in his hand, reading them eagerly, making the occasional note of his own only to let them fall to the floor as he finished, discarding them in favor of the next page.

He looked up to see her clumsily fumbling her way to the kitchen, his eyes alight. Enthusiastically, he waved her over to the mantel.

 _Good evening, Molly. I’ve been researching our little reflective temporal anomaly and I have some fascinating leads,_ he scribbled excitedly.

She smiled tiredly as she folded her arms on the mantel, resting her chin in the crook of her elbow. _That’s great, Sherlock._

His pen halted as he noticed her expression, his brow creasing in concern.

 _Are you alright?_ he asked, scrapping what he had previously written.

She nodded unconvincingly. _I hit a dead end at the shop today. Turns out that the woman who sold the mirror to me doesn’t exist._

She rubbed her temples and ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I feel like I might be losing my mind,” she admitted quietly, meeting his quicksilver eyes.

He smiled gently and began to write.

 _There, there._ He held up the note with a soft smile. He then added, _You seem fairly sane to me._

Molly’s smile brightened as she began to laugh, her shoulders shaking as she dipped her head, the stress of the day melting off her. Sherlock seemed to chuckle along with her.

She pressed her lips together as she wrote her reply.

_Thank you._

She held up her hand, her fingers hovering above the surface of the mirror hesitantly. Sherlock met her eyes reassuringly and held his hand parallel to hers on the other side. Molly let her eyes close as she reached out to close the distance. Suddenly, her eyes flew open a rush of cold flooded her fingertips, as if she’d plunged her hand into an icy river, followed by the warmth of his palm against her skin.

Startled, she jerked her hand back, looking from her palm to the detective, her eyes wide with shock.

Sherlock studied his own fingers curiously, meeting her gaze with equal surprise. His expression thoughtful, he held his hand parallel to the glass once more, asking silent permission to try again.

Molly nodded hesitantly and extended her hand to meet his. Once again a cold, tingling shock ran through her as she breached the mirror’s surface, followed by the warmth of his touch.

He met her eyes as a smile quirked across his face. Gently, he laced his fingers with hers and began to pull her through.

Molly climbed from the seat of her barstool to the mantle, doing her best to not topple over, her arm now elbow deep through the other side of the mirror. As the mantel started to protest under her weight, she held her breath and pushed herself through, vaulting herself gracelessly into Sherlock’s arms.

The detective stumbled back slightly, steadying himself and her as he helped her to her feet.

She felt, more so than heard a chuckle reverberate through his chest as she clutched the arms of his dressing gown, attempting to regain her equilibrium. “Welcome to 1889, Molly Hooper,” he said in a rich baritone as he slowly let go of her. “How do you feel?”

“Fine I think,” Molly managed, stunned. “Wait...No…Okay, yep, that’s a brain freeze. Ow…” She stumbled into the high backed leather chair by the fire, wincing as she rubbed her temples.

“Oh, um, can I get you anything to alleviate the situation? Tea, perhaps?” Sherlock offered, striding to the kitchen as he kept his eyes on her.

“No, it’s fine… I think it’s just temporary from going through the…thingy” Molly waved a hand towards the mantel, still holding her head with the other. “My system’s just trying to readjust after the shock of the temperature change. Probably. Maybe. It was very cold going through there and it is very warm in here. I think. I can’t tell if I’m warm or cold…tea would be lovely, actually.”

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows against her knees as she held her head in her hands, the headache slowly fading. She looked up as she felt Sherlock standing beside her.

“Hello,” she laughed shyly, meeting his gaze.

“Hello,” he replied, offering her the painted china cup in his hand.

She took it gratefully. “I suppose this saves you the trouble of writing out your research findings,” she quipped, taking a drink from the cup. “Mm. How’d you make this so quickly?”

“Mrs. Hudson brought it up for me not long before you returned to your flat,” Sherlock explained casually as he went about collecting the various papers littered across the floor.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Molly asked, managing not to choke as she set the cup down.

“My landlady. Why? You seem as though you recognize the name,” he inquired curiously.

“I ought to. Mrs. Hudson is the name of _my_ landlady,” Molly laughed. “Although, I suppose it is a common enough surname.”

“True,” Sherlock mused, “However, the odds of women of the same name possessing the same property for over a century…”

“Talk about keeping it in the family,” Molly laughed to herself.

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmured, returning to gathering his research.

Molly picked up the newspaper on the table to distract herself from outright staring at the detective as he walked about the room. Her brow furrowed slightly as she read the headline across the top of the page.

“’Tanning the Leather Apron: The Whitechapel Murder Case Sewn Shut by Dr. John Watson’” she read aloud.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he came to stand by the fire. “Not one of his better titles, but an exciting enough case none the less. Although I must say that I was pleased to have identified the killer as a surgeon before Doctor Watson, given his own medical background.”

Molly worried her lip slightly as she looked over the article.

“Don’t tell me you know Doctor Watson, too?” Sherlock ventured.

“Not personally,” Molly replied distractedly.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, looking through his notes again.

“That is I think my boss has a friend from Uni named Watson…I could be wrong. However…His wasn’t the name I recognized.”

Sherlock smirked. “Famous case is it? To his credit, Watson’s writing has improved vastly over the years.”

“Um…not exactly. Where or rather _when_ I’m from, I guess… the Whitechapel Murderer, this…’Johnathan Carmichael-Jones’ fellow, was never caught,” Molly explained.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I see…Oh! Brilliant!” he gasped. His collected papers went flying once more as he cast them aside in his excitement, rubbing his hands together. “Molly, would you come stand here for a moment?”

“Um…alright,” Molly replied, coming to stand beside him.

Sherlock winced slightly as he reached through the mirror and grabbed Molly’s make up mirror on the other side, bringing it through.

“I believe I’ve just cracked our mirror case,” he explained.

“Was that a pun?” she asked with a smile.

“Unintentional I assure you,” he replied dismissively, focused on the task at hand. “Now stand facing this way…Good. And if I hold the mirror like so…”

He adjusted her position accordingly with a light touch at her shoulders, turning her towards the mantel before coming to stand behind her with the smaller mirror from her flat. “Tell me what you see.”

Molly glanced at him quizzically. “I see my reflection.”

“Yes, but beyond that…” he prompted.

“…more of my reflection? Just rows and rows of my reflectio—Oh! Oh, I see!” Molly exclaimed, turning to him. “So… you think that _we_ are essentially being reflected through time itself.”

“Yes exactly!” Sherlock grinned, plucking one of the pages at his feet from the floor, showing it to her as he scratched out a diagram of his thoughts. “But not only that, for as you pointed out, there does not appear to be a consistent history between my time and yours. Which leads me to believe that it is increasingly probable that we are not only of different times but of different, parallel space.”

“Of course,” Molly breathed, retrieving a separate pen from the mantel, then returning to draw out a diagram of her own on top of what he had started. “So…assuming that the two of us still exist within the same dimension…”

“A safe assumption, given that neither you nor I appear to be pressed flat,” Sherlock piped in, agreeably.

“Right,” Molly smiled slightly as she began to draw. “Then it would be plausible for something, or I guess in our case someone, to be reflected across different points in history within parallel timelines.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock nodded. “Thus avoiding any paradoxical instances.”

“Like accidentally going on a blind date with your great great grandson,” Molly laughed.

“I suppose…” Sherlock replied, glancing at her with an amused smirk. “Not the instance I envisioned…but yes that would qualify.”

Molly blushed slightly. “So, then the mirror must be acting as a doorway across timelines…Do you suppose they’re equally spaced? The reflections, I mean.”

“That would make sense, theoretically. Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Just wondering where in time are the other Molly Hoopers,” Molly shrugged, picturing herself in a red fedora and trench coat somewhere. “I don’t know, aren’t you curious where the other ‘you’s are? What they’re up to? Slaying dragons or seeing an original Shakespeare play performed for the first time at the Globe?”

“Sailing the seas as a renegade pirate?” Sherlock offered with a playful grin.

“Exactly.” Molly smiled up at him before a yawn started to come over her.

“I should let you return home and get some rest,” Sherlock admitted regretfully.

Molly attempted to protest as she fought off another yawn. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you for the tea and, um, catching me on my way in…”

She turned to look at the mantel hesitantly. “Could you…do you think you could give me a boost up?” she asked.

“Oh, um, of course…” Sherlock replied, attempting to sound confident, although he seemed very unsure how exactly to go about it. He looked from her to the mantel and back, reaching out hesitantly towards her only to pull his hands back, visibly thinking through the best way to lift her while maintaining a semblance of propriety.

“Maybe if you just link your fingers and I can, um, step up from there?” Molly suggested.

Sherlock nodded and bent down slightly, doing as she instructed, keeping his eyes averted as Molly hoisted herself up over the mantel. When it seemed she was nearly through he gave her foot a slight push up in attempt to help her further, sending her toppling through the mirror onto the floor of her flat, her squeak of distress cut short as she fell through.

“Oops,” he muttered to himself, craning his neck to see if she was alright.

Molly popped up quickly, grinning with embarrassment as a deep blush began to color her cheeks. Sherlock smiled sheepishly, relieved to see she was unharmed.

He extended his hand through the mirror, “Goodnight to you, Molly,” he said, his voice muffled but still audible. “Until tomorrow?”

Molly smiled and took his hand, shaking it. “Until tomorrow,” she agreed.

She withdrew her hand and gave him a final, shy nod goodnight before she turned to go to bed. It took everything she had to walk at a somewhat casual pace, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment as she smiled to herself and held her hand to her chest, his voice still ringing in her ears.


	4. Are you free this evening?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly receives an invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I feel bad that I have been taking so long to update this. Thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> The usual...  
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Probably needs a proof read but I'm eager to get this updated and I have to get up early in the morning so... I'll fix things later. 
> 
> Let me know thoughts, reactions, etc. in the comments. And if you don't know what to comment just say hi! I love knowing that people actually read these silly things I write.

_“Lady Margaret! Lady Margaret you must evacuate the castle now! The dragon is nearly upon us.”_

_Her footman stood gasping for air at the top of the steps as she looked out at the sea, her hair flowing freely in the wind beneath the weight of her crown._

_“William, my good man, you know I will do no such thing. Have them bring a cow to the pasture beyond the castle walls for Othello. Offer him a sack of gold if you must to keep him busy. I will discuss our treaty with the dragons after sundown, but not a moment sooner,” she replied calmly._

_The man adjusted his velvet cap. “But my lady…you cannot be sure he will return on time. If at all…”_

_“Oh, he’ll be here,” Molly assured him, keeping her eyes to the horizon._

_Just then the sails of a great ship came into view below._

_“See?” Molly smiled triumphantly, gathering her skirts as she descended the stairs. “Come on then, Will. This is no time to sit and ponder poetry. Fetch the cow for Othello and try to keep him from setting anything on fire while he’s waiting. I’ve got a pirate to see!”_

_Molly raced down the staircase of the high tower out on to the sandy beach beyond the castle walls._

_As the sun dipped lower in the sky, she could make out the silhouette of a rowboat coming in to shore. With a laugh, she gathered her skirts about her knees and ran out into the water to meet him._

_Seeing her approach, Sherlock grinned and jumped from the rowboat to embrace her, nearly toppling over into the waves as she collided with him._

_“I’ve missed you,” she murmured, clinging to him. “I was beginning to worry that you’d lost your way.”_

_“Now, now, Molly,” he reprimanded with a chuckle, pulling away slightly so that he could cup her cheek with his hand. “You know that I’ll always find my way to you.”_

_His sea green eyes smoldered down at her as he held her close, dipping his head to meet her lips…_

**_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_ **

Molly woke with a start, her alarm robbing her of the end to her heavenly dream. She groaned, rubbing her forehead as the implication of the dreams details began to flood back to her.

“What am I doing?” she wondered aloud. She couldn’t allow herself to develop feelings for Sherlock. Not _those_ sort of feelings. She knew it would never work. It could never work…but oh what if it did? A part of her thought wistfully.

No. Long distance was one thing but this situation with her Victorian era friend, whatever it was… it was another thing entirely.

“It was just a dream, Molly,” she reminded herself as she got ready for work. “Just a dream…”

 

She did her best to not think about the dashing detective, focusing on work. Soon enough, however, the afternoon began to lull, leaving her alone in her office with her thoughts.

_“I’ll always find my way to you.”_

Molly began to wonder if Sherlock Holmes existed somewhere on this side of the mirror, in this timeline. _Her_ timeline…

It was certainly a possibility.

She turned to her computer, curiosity getting the better of her. Her cursor blinked in the search bar as her fingers hovered hesitantly over her keyboard. Taking a deep breath, she began to type.

_Sherlock Holmes_

Her search results revealed a website detailing several types of tobacco ash and an incredibly snarky twitter account.

She found herself smiling as she scrolled through, reading some of his old tweets. But before she could search any further, her work chat popped open as one of the doctors upstairs alerted her that a body was coming down for autopsy.

Sighing to herself, she closed out of her computer search and did her best not to think too much about Sherlock Holmes. In _any_ timeline…

 

She returned home to the hollow sounds of a violin drifting through her entryway. As she made her way into her flat, she saw a crystal glass sitting midway through the mirror, Sherlock playing away, deep in thought on the other side. Beside the glass, there was a folded note placed upon the mantle.

_Are you free this evening?_

Molly smiled as she read it. She once again had no plans for that evening. None but talking with him.

She laughed as she flipped the note over.

_I’ve assembled some makeshift steps for easier entrance. Feel free to “let yourself in.”_

Setting down her bag, she pulled up a chair, climbed over the mantle and through to the other side of the mirror.

She suppressed a laugh as she found a “staircase” of books and crates descending from the mantel. She went down carefully, letting out a small sigh of relief at finding Sherlock’s unconventional construction to be sturdy enough to hold her.

Once her feet were safely on the floor, she turned to look at the detective, his back still to her. He was dressed in a full suit instead of his usual dressing gown. Molly soon had to corral her wandering thoughts as she admired the well tailored garments and the way they fit the man underneath.

She cleared her throat, mentally bringing herself back to the reason she came and alerting the detective to her presence.

His bow paused mid string, turning to her.

“Ah, Molly! I see you got my note,” he greeted cheerfully.

Molly nodded. “That I did. Did you need me for something?”

“Yes. I was hoping that you might be willing to help me with a case this evening.”

“A case?” Molly sat down in his overstuffed armchair, intrigued. “What sort of case?”

“A fairly simple one. My brother has reason to believe that information is being smuggled within pieces of art by some of England’s criminal underground,” Sherlock explained. “Several of the suspected pieces are to be auctioned off at a gala this evening. I’ve agreed to investigate, but seeing as it is an event one does not typically attend alone…”

“You need someone to pose as your date for the evening,” Molly finished.

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock continued. “Normally, I would ask Miss Morstan to assist with a case like this, given her background. However since she is now _Mrs. Watson_ and away on her honeymoon, she and her husband are unavailable to assist me on any cases for the foreseeable future. But seeing as you and I have become acquainted and have worked well together over the past few days, you seemed like the perfect solution.”

“I’m flattered,” Molly laughed. “What will I need to do?”

Sherlock smiled. “Observe mostly. Help me blend in with the crowd. Alert me if there is anything you happen to notice that seems out of the ordinary.  Do you happen to dance, per chance?”

“Um…”

“Not to worry. I’ll lead if it appears that dancing will be required. I’m sure you’ll pick up on it quickly enough.”

“Sherlock…” Molly interjected, worrying her lip. “About blending in…I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Yes, I thought of that earlier. Mycroft’s secretary, Anthea, should be arriving shortly. I sent a message to her this morning.”

“What did you tell her?” Molly asked.

Sherlock sat across from her. “I explained as briefly as I could the circumstances of our meeting. I noticed the different needs of twenty-first century clothing compared to nineteenth century fashions and assumed that you may require some…feminine assistance to better look the part. I would have asked Mrs. Hudson, but I don’t think that she would be able to handle the whole truth.”

“No, I don’t suppose she would,” Molly agreed.

Sherlock inclined his head, meeting her eyes. “I assure you, Anthea is nothing if not discreet. We can trust her with this.”

Molly nodded, feeling slightly better knowing she would have someone there to help her navigate putting on a corset—or any of the other impossibly intricate garments that may be necessary—without having to worry about concealing why she didn’t know which way it should be laced. Wearing it may prove to be its own obstacle in itself…

“How did she take the news? About…all of this?” Molly asked, motioning from the mantel to herself.

“Anthea takes almost everything in stride. She’s impressively even keel. You could tell her that a man walked on the moon and she would hardly bat an eye,” Sherlock chuckled.

Molly pressed her lips together, ducking her head to keep from laughing. “About that…”

She was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“That would be her,” Sherlock informed her, standing to get the door.

 

After they were properly introduced, Molly and Anthea made their way up the stairs, garment bags in hand, to John’s old room to prepare for the evening.

She made Molly feel at ease as she helped her into the various undergarments, never making her feel silly when she needed direction.

“So…have you worked for Sherlo—Mister Holmes’ brother long?” Molly asked as Anthea deftly laced up her corset.

“Ages, or so it feels. We’ve developed quite the partnership over the years. There is never a dull moment with the Holmes brothers,” Anthea admitted with a chuckle.

“I can imagine not.” Molly smiled, doing her best to breathe in the new contraption about her waist.

“Mister Holmes said that you were about my size, so I took the liberty of bringing one of my dresses for you to wear,” Anthea explained as she pulled out a pale pink floral gown of velvet and satin.

“Oh my,” Molly breathed, admiring the rose colored satin neckline. “It’s beautiful!”

“Mycroft got it for me for my birthday last year. I’m afraid I won’t be able to wear it again for quite some time though.” She smiled wistfully, absently pressing a hand to her stomach.

“Oh…you’re…” Molly stammered, unsure of what to say.

Anthea laughed, setting her at ease. “Don’t worry, Miss Hooper. The child is well within the confines of wedlock,” she assured her, pulling a gold ring on a chain out from underneath her collar. “I’m afraid in my husband’s line of work, safety often requires secrecy.”

“Does Sherlock know?” Molly whispered, leaning in conspiratorially.

Anthea shrugged, smiling. “I’m sure he’s aware of it somewhere in that mind palace of his. He refers to me as Mycroft’s secretary out of habit more than anything, I think. Doesn’t always cope with change well at first.”

Molly nodded, unsure what else to say.

Anthea saved her the trouble by continuing. “Well, enough about me. Let’s get you dressed and then we can see what we can do with that hair of yours.”

 

Molly descended the stairs carefully, enjoying the soft swishing sound of her borrowed dress as she moved. Anthea had managed to pin her hair back into an elegant, Victorian style atop her head that Molly was sure she could never replicate on her own, try as she might.

Sherlock stood at the bottom of the steps, awaiting them in his greatcoat and top hat.  As he turned his gaze to Molly, he looked at her with what Molly could only describe as a “buffering” look on his face.

She smiled shyly as she reached the bottom step.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, donning her matching rose colored satin gloves and a pale yellow shawl.

He blinked down at her for several seconds before answering. “Yes, um, very good. Perfectly adequate. Excellent work as always, Anthea.”

“She was a pleasure to dress,” Anthea replied, giving Molly a friendly wink.

“Mmm, right,” Sherlock agreed absently. Refocusing his attention, he turned to Anthea with a gentlemanly nod. “Give my brother my regards, won’t you?”

“Always,” Anthea assured him.

Sherlock’s eyes rested on his sister in law, wheels visibly turning as he noticed her appearance more closely. “By the way,” he asked, leaning in conspiratorially. “If you’ll pardon my asking…Does my brother know about…?”

He gestured to Anthea’s stomach with an amused smile.

“Yes, Sherlock. He knows,” Anthea chuckled.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disappointment. “Drat. I hoped I could toy with him for a while. See how long it took him to figure it out. Oh well…” he sighed, donning his hat. “He was amusingly flummoxed by the news though, yes?”

“As only a Holmes could be,” Anthea said with a smile.

“Wonderful. I suppose we’d best be off then,” he replied, checking his pocket watch.

Extending his arm for Molly he asked, “Shall we?”

Molly nodded, trying not to blush under his gaze as she took his arm. “Indeed we shall.”

 

 

* * *

 

[Molly's dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/137782069834258511/) reference image for those who are interested.


	5. Antiques and Antoinette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock investigate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack!
> 
> I know it has been forever and a day since I last updated this fic. Thank you so much for waiting. I was hit by a huge writer's block and then a busy schedule and then more writer's block and well... here we are. But at long last, the update is here with more to come! (Hopefully much sooner this time around...)
> 
> As usual, unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. I'll do my best to fix them as I find them.
> 
> I'm just really excited to finally be updating this again. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments!

Molly watched the scenery roll by as their carriage took them into the heart of London.

“So where are we going?” she asked curiously.

“The home of one of my brother’s associates from the Diogenes club. It would seem Mr. Blake likes to fancy himself a bit of a philanthropist. If there is an event to be had under the guise of raising funds for charity, you can be assured he will be the first to offer himself as host—as long as the event itself is exclusively invitation only that is. God forbid the _public_ be allowed to intermingle with someone of his stature,” Sherlock explained, rolling his eyes derisively at their host’s classist attitudes.

“Got it,” Molly replied with a nod. “No pilfering the ash trays.”

He smirked, arching an eyebrow at her as he considered the idea. “Let’s not limit our fun just yet, Molly.”

Molly chuckled and turned to watch the unfamiliar London buildings pass by.

As they came to a stop, she found herself dazzled by the bustling crowd spilling into the large manor from the street.

 Sherlock exited the carriage first, offering his arm to her as he held the door open, drawing her out of her daze.

“Are you ready?” he asked, giving her an encouraging smile.

Molly nodded, weaving her hand into the crook of his offered arm, doing her best to ignore the way his smile made her heart flutter as he lead her inside.

A string quartet could be heard from inside the ballroom as they approached the registration table set up in the manor’s large foyer. Molly swayed to the tune as she peeked inside to admire the dancers. Across the sea of swirling skirts and coattails, she caught a glimpse of man hastily exiting and locking the room behind him. He nervously patted his pockets as he dispensed of the key before disappearing into the crowd.

 _How odd_.

“Pardon me,” she said, catching a waiter on his way past her with a tray of drinks. “I, um, was wondering where the auction is being held tonight.”

“Just beyond the ballroom, Miss,” the young man replied, gesturing to the room Molly had noticed previously. “Mr. Blake will direct you when the time comes.”

Molly thanked him and turned her attention back to watching the dancefloor.

Sherlock soon joined her, looking over her shoulder at the crowd. “Any new discoveries so far?”

“The auction is being held over there,” Molly informed him, her voice hushed as she led him to get a better view of the door in question.

Sherlock grinned excitedly. “Excellent. We should be able to slip inside and locate the pieces in question easily.

Molly shook her head, skeptical. “I think it’s locked. I saw a man with a key leaving the room before. He seemed anxious.”

He squinted appraisingly as he peered across the hall at the door.

“Shouldn’t be any trouble,” he surmised. “A hairpin should be sufficient for that sort of lock. Surely there is one tucked somewhere in your tresses that can be spared.”

Molly pressed her lips together, amused by the understatement of his assessment. “Only one way to find out,” she murmured. “Now we just need to figure out how to sneak over there.”

Sherlock glanced at her as she watched the dancers move in time to the music, impressed by the ease in which she had slipped into investigating; her energy and efforts a compliment to his own rather than being a hindrance. And even more striking was the fact that she seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself.

“Care for a waltz?” he suggested.

“I’d be delighted," Molly replied, curtsying playfully.

 Sherlock led her out onto the dancefloor as the musicians began a new song, swirling her into his arms as he effortlessly merged them into the crowd.

Molly let out a small squeak of surprise, not expecting to join in so quickly. Her first inclination was to look down at her feet. However, she quickly realized that she could not see them underneath her skirts.

Noticing her hesitance, Sherlock adjusted their stance, pressing her slightly closer to himself in an effort to guide her steps more easily with his own.

She looked up, surprised by the adjustment.

“I need your eyes on our surroundings, Molly,” he reminded her softly.

Molly nodded and looked away as she felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “Right. Sorry,” she murmured, trying to clear her head and stay focused, despite the distracting touch of his hand on her back.

Allowing herself to follow Sherlock’s lead, they soon fell into an easy rhythm. It felt natural somehow, the way they fit together. As if they’d danced a thousand times before.

“Can you identify the man you saw?” he asked, scanning the room with a casual air.

“I think so. He was sort of far away,” Molly admitted, turning her head to do the same. “Slim build. Thinning gray hair. He had a rather large mustache—Ooh! Sherlock that’s him.”

She gestured as subtly as she could towards the other end of the room where their suspect mingled with a finely dressed older couple before exiting the room to chase down a cocktail waiter.

“That is Mr. Thomas, Mr. Blake’s assistant. According to my sources, Mr. Thomas is the one who truly runs these functions while Mr. Blake is simply a figurehead who holds the purse strings.”

“I see,” Molly replied thoughtfully. “All that work and none of the credit. It must be maddening.”

Sherlock agreed, “Undoubtedly underpaid for his efforts. Certainly constitutes a motive. He could make a handsome sum by offering his talents to those of less reputable means of employment.”

“Should we go after him?” she asked, inclining her head to watch Mr. Thomas over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“No need,” Sherlock replied. “His part in this is more than likely finished, assuming all the items intended for smuggling are mixed in with the rest.”

She nodded in agreement, letting the music fill the silence.

After a moment, Sherlock murmured, “You’re doing very well, by the way.”

Molly looked up to meet his eyes, but his face was turned towards their surroundings.

He continued, “I realize that it was an odd favor to ask of you and I…I appreciate your willingness to assist me. Not many would be.”

“What makes you say that?” Molly wondered.

Sherlock smiled. “Past experience mostly,' he replied self deprecatingly. "I prefer scientific study to socializing and have made a career investigating criminals and murders instead of pursuing a more traditionally respectable occupation. Most people find that a bit off putting. Not to mention my distaste for idle chatter and inane gossip. I suppose that makes me odd.”

Molly considered this, unconsciously holding his hand a little tighter in hers.

“Maybe I am a little odd too.”

He met her eyes, surprised by her remark as she looked up to give him a reassuring smile. He smiled in kind before turning his eyes back on the crowd.

“We’re close to the other side now. I’m going to need you to slip out of your shoe during this next turn when we are in front of the door. Can you do that?” He murmured.

“Mmhm,” Molly hummed in reply, though not entirely convinced of her ability to do so.

“Good. Almost there…now,” Sherlock instructed, twirling her around with extra gusto. Molly managed to slip her shoe from her foot, sending it skittering along the edge of the dancefloor.

Sherlock made a show of playing the clumsy partner as he led her out of the way, depositing her discreetly in front of the doorway as he retrieved her footwear for her.

While he did so, Molly slipped a pin from her hair where she thought it would be least missed. When Sherlock returned to her side, she stealthily passed him the pin as he handed her shoe to her. He nodded slightly, indicating for her to stand next to the lock side of the door to block the view of any who might see. Molly moved accordingly and began methodically replacing her shoe and stretching her ankle as Sherlock attempted to pick the lock behind his back.

Thankfully, it was not long before they both heard a satisfying click as the chambers fell into place and the door clicked open. As the crowd of dancers applauded the end of the song, they seized their opportunity and slipped inside.

The room itself appeared to be Mr. Blake’s library—although judging by the selection it was not his personal collection, merely one for show.

Beyond the rows of chairs set up for the auction lay a table displaying trinkets of varying age and size.

“The information should be hidden within three of these objects,” Sherlock informed her.

Molly nodded as she approached the table cautiously, nearly holding her breath for fear of breaking one of the ancient looking vases or statuettes. Sherlock, however, did not hesitate to pick up a bust of Caesar to inspect its base for a hidden mechanism.

“Careful,” she reminded him, glancing up at him as she inspected a statuette for signs of discoloration.

Sherlock smirked, tossing the bust in the air slightly to check the weight. “Molly, please. I’m always careful,” he replied, nearly dropping it as he grinned at her cheekily.

Molly suppressed a laugh and shook her head, turning her attention towards a large painted vase.

The next bust that Sherlock picked up was much lighter than the first. Upon closer inspection he found a fine seam under the chin. Carefully removing he head, he revealed a rolled piece of parchment tucked inside the statue’s hollow base.

“One down…” he said, replacing the stone head.

“Thank you, Lady Antoinette,” Molly quipped.

She smiled to herself in satisfaction as Sherlock chuckled at her joke. Replacing the vase on the table, she gingerly lifted an intricately carved jade hairpin, turning it this way and that in the candlelight. 

Across the library, the handle of a door leading further into the manor began to turn as someone on the other side could be heard fumbling with the lock.

Molly froze, meeting Sherlock’s eyes as panic started to set in. He looked frantically about the room for a suitable place to hide. His gaze landed on the sitting area by the fireplace, its high backed couch facing away from the door.

Grabbing hold of her hand, Sherlock pulled Molly across the room as her mind fought to catch up to their hurried steps. Heart racing, she dove behind the couch, pulling Sherlock down with her as the lock clicked open.

They lay stock still, listening. The sound of a lone pair of footsteps entered the room, followed by the soft clattering of objects being lifted and replaced on the auction table as a man grumbled to himself.

“Where is that blasted jade pin?” he muttered in a thick Irish brogue.

Molly blanched as she turned to face Sherlock, coming nearly nose to nose with the detective, the pin still in her hand.

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the realization but he did not move.

The man sighed in exasperation. “ _Thomas_. That little weasel.”

The man stalked away from the table and shut the door behind himself.

Only when his footsteps faded down the hall did Molly allow herself to breathe.

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed, a smile crossing his face. He turned to speak but stopped short, eyes locked with hers as he realized the minimal distance between them. Clearing his throat, he pushed himself up, fixing his coat as he stood.

“Well done, Molly. Your instincts have proven to be incredibly useful this evening,” he complimented, putting some space between them as he smoothed a loose curl back into place.

Molly sat up, the space he had occupied next to her feeling suddenly empty.

She stood as Sherlock inspected the table’s contents once more, fiddling with the curves of the pin.

“What’s so special about this one do you think? It doesn’t seem like it has anywhere that it could hide something,” she wondered. As she pressed the center of the pin, a hidden latch sprung open, sending a small slip of paper fluttering to the floor from inside the polished round stone at the top.

She bent to pick it up, inspecting it as she brought it to Sherlock.

“It’s some sort of code. Coordinates, maybe?,” she informed him, handing it over.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, holding it up to the light. Molly turned her attention to the auction table as he inspected the code.

He turned to her, his expression serious. “Coordinates for her majesty’s Navy…”

Molly nodded. “He’s switched this bust with a replica. There’s no seam at the neck.”

He pivoted back to the table of antiques. “And that one as well. He must think he has all thr—where are you going?”

Molly paused at the door from which the man had made his exit, looking at Sherlock expectantly. “Well, he can’t have gotten far, can he?”

Sherlock grinned, shaking his head as he came to join her. “Are you quite certain this is your first case, Molly? Because at this rate it may be _you_ whom Mr. Watson is writing about before long.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Molly laughed.

They climbed the stairs that lead from the library to the moonlit hallway outside of Mr. Blake’s personal chambers. As they crept forward, the sound of muffled voices drifted toward them from under the door.

“—what sort of game you think we are playing ‘ere, Thomas, but Mr. Moriarty doesn’t take well to his employees attempting to skim some off the top for themselves,” the distinct brogue sneered.

“I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about. J-just put the gun down and we can talk about this…”

Sherlock locked eyes with Molly in silent agreement to take action before positioning her behind himself and busting the door open.

The man with the gun stood with his back to them as Sherlock burst in, taking him by surprise. Sherlock struck him, knocking the gun and the sack of antiques from his hand.

The man stumbled, flailing as he attempted to regain his equilibrium. Nostrils flared, he charged Sherlock, sending him crashing back against the armoire. The man held Sherlock by the throat, pinning him as he prepared to strike. Before the blow was dealt, Molly crashed the hollowed bust over his head, knocking him unconscious.

Sherlock coughed and sputtered as his assailant slumped to the floor. Molly rushed to his side to inspect him for injuries.

“Oh thank you, sir. Thank you, thank you! Why if you hadn’t shown up, there’s no telling what that ruffian would have done,” Mr. Thomas cried gratefully.

“Perhaps you should have considered that before going into business with him,” Sherlock rasped as Molly looked him over. He wove his hand with hers, gently lowering it from his neck. He gave her a grateful smile before adding with an irritated glance towards Mr. Thomas, “And I can only take part of the credit as it was Miss Hooper, not I, who incapacitated him.”

“Oh yes, of course. Thank you, Miss. Truly,” Mr. Thomas added, turning a misty eye to her.

A maid rushed in, having heard the commotion from down the hall. “What on earth is going on?”

“Madame, would you send a telegraph to Scotland Yard? I have two smugglers that the British government would very much like to see in custody,” Sherlock instructed. “And alert Mr. Blake as well.”

Mr. Thomas wiped his eyes and cleared his throat nervously. “There…there’s no need to tell Mr. Blake about all of this, is there? I was feeling out of sorts when I got in touch with Mr. Moran. It was a mistake. But there is no real harm done. Surely there is no need to be pressing charges…”

“You may not need to worry about informing Mr. Blake…” Molly said, turning her eyes from the mirror behind Sherlock towards the bed.

She moved to reveal the edge of a gentleman’s coat sleeve poking out from under the bed skirt. Sherlock came to Molly’s side, helping her to haul the rest of the man’s body out from under the bed. The maid gasped as they rolled him over, revealing the corpse to be none other than Mr. Blake, his eyes bulged and his neck mottled with bruises, strangled by his own neck tie.

“Instruct Inspector Lestrade to meet me at the morgue as well. I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Thomas until his men arrive to bring him in for questioning,” Sherlock added.

The maid nodded, trembling slightly from the shock as she forced herself from the room to deliver the message.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the bewildered Mr. Thomas. “You were saying?”


	6. Too close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly continue their investigation with a trip to the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Will attempt to fix them as I find them.
> 
> Sorry if any of the formatting is weird. I recently switched over from using a desktop word processor to Google docs...turns out it is a bit different. Still adjusting... I think I fixed it...maybe...
> 
> Don't forget to leave your thoughts (or even just say hi) in the comments!

It wasn’t long before the manor was swarming with officers from Scotland Yard. Several groups were assigned to searching the house for connections to the smugglers, be it in the form of letters or more counterfeit antiques, while others were busy taking statements from party guests. Eventually a forensics team joined them to remove Mr. Blake’s corpse and bring it down to the morgue.

Mr. Thomas, meanwhile, sat quietly as he awaited his fate in resignation while Sherlock and Molly took the opportunity to search the room for clues.

Every few minutes, Mr. Thomas would hazard a glance at his deceased employer only to shake his head, letting out a stifled, wistful sigh. The sound of which was increasingly getting on Sherlock’s last nerve.

All in all, it was an incredibly tidy crime scene. No signs of struggle. No sloppy trail of evidence. Not so much as an out of place finger print.

Molly knelt down to look over the body for any peculiar marks or bruise patterning that might help them identify the killer.

Upon seeing this, Mr. Thomas’s sighs turned into a babbling fit.

“Stop! It’s far too gruesome for a lady to see, Miss,” he protested between sighs and sniffles. “Far too gruesome. It’s simply not proper.”

Molly straightened, ready to correct him when Sherlock snapped, “Sir, if you’ve nothing useful to say, do shut your mouth. Your incessant sighing is putting me off my concentration.”

Mr. Thomas sputtered indignantly, attempting to formulate a retort and coming up empty.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, glancing at Molly as he crouched to inspect Mr. Blake’s bedside table, attempting to convey both his irritation as well as a silent apology for her having to deal with the prevailing misogynist views of the time.

_Welcome to 1889._

Molly took a breath before crossing the room to sit beside Mr. Thomas. Irksome as it may be, she could set aside her own own indignation at the man’s outdated views for the sake of the case, if only just this once.

“Perhaps, sir, you could tell me what you know about the smuggler’s ring. It would be ever so helpful,” she interrupted, giving Mr. Thomas a sweet smile.

“Yes,” Mr. Thomas replied, calming himself down as he considered this. “Yes, I can do that, Miss.”

Sherlock silently handed her a pad of paper and a pencil from his coat, meeting her eyes briefly in silent thanks as she coaxed Mr. Thomas into sharing what useful information he had with her.

When reminded of the hope for a lighter sentence with his cooperation, Mr. Thomas was more than willing to spill everything detail he could possibly recall, talking almost without pause from the moment Molly began writing to the moment the officers came to remove the body and bring him to the station. 

Sherlock followed the officers carrying Mr. Blake’s body downstairs, reminding them at length, as one would when giving a task to a child, of the proper handling of evidence on their way out the door. 

Molly shook her head, smiling as she followed at a more leisurely pace.  

 

Having assured himself of the body’s proper handling, Sherlock rejoined Molly outside, having retrieved her shawl. She took it with a murmur of thanks, reviewing the last of her notes as she wrapped it about her shoulders, handing the small pad of paper to him.

“Did you notice anything before that idiot started protesting,” Sherlock asked, donning his hat.

“It was clear that he was attacked from behind, given the tie and the angle of the bruising. I didn’t get much of a look beyond that,” Molly confessed. “Although I did notice a tear in the shoulder of Mr. Blake’s coat...And the sleeves were a bit wrinkled at the wrists. But the rest of his clothing was pristinely pressed.”

Sherlock hummed, considering this. “We’ll have to check the body for any additional marks that could have been concealed by his clothing. Our killer may have had an accomplice.”

“To the morgue then?” Molly suggested brightly.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, extending his arm to hail a cab as he descended the steps.

Sherlock spent the majority of the cab ride in a sort of meditative state; eyes closed and fingers steepled underneath his chin as he sorted through his ‘mind palace’ as he’d called it, piecing together the clues they had found.

It was a fascinating technique. One that Molly would be very interested in trying for herself, should she find the time.

Molly smiled to herself, glancing at the man in front of her before turning her eyes back to the unfamiliar sights of London.

 

When the carriage rolled to a stop, Molly moved to get out but soon found Sherlock still deep in thought, unaware that they had arrived at their destination. 

“Sherlock,” she said gently, trying to rouse him.

He made a small sound of recognition but his eyes remained closed, unmoving.

Molly sat forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him a slight shake. “Sherlock, we’re here.”

Sherlock breathed in, his eyes flying open in realization.

“Perfume,” he said, sitting up straight.

“What about it? Molly asked, withdrawing her hand, surprised by the sudden outburst.

“Not yours. The perfume in Mr. Blake’s room,” he explained, exiting the cab excitedly.

“There was a bottle of rose perfume on his wife’s vanity,” Molly recalled, climbing out after him.

“True. Yet it was the scent of jasmine perfume that clung to his sheets,” Sherlock pointed out, helping her down from the cab.

“Perhaps she wore that scent more often?” Molly suggested.

“Unlikely. The bottle was half empty.”

“You think he had a mistress?”

Sherlock nodded. “Killing a man with his own necktie requires having a close relationship with Mr. Blake. Intimately close. His valet could have done it were it not for the fact that he was on leave visiting his sick mother and Mr. Thomas had taken over his duties for the evening. Thomas’ clear ignorance of his employers death plus a lingering perfume suggests a scorned lover if not Mrs. Blake herself. That suite of rooms hardly seemed to belong to a happily married couple.”

“It seemed as if Mrs. Blake were hardly there at all,” Molly agreed. “The clothes in the wardrobe were almost entirely Mr. Blakes.”

“And then there is the possible accomplice…” Sherlock considered. “I’ll need to review the statements taken from the staff. Possibly question them myself about Mrs. Blake’s comings and goings--Ah! Inspector Lestrade!”

Sherlock rushed to greet the man stepping out from the hospital entrance for a smoke.

“What did your officers have to report? Did they happen to say anything about Mrs. Blake? Or perhaps her lady’s maid? Did the man happen to have a favorite kitchen girl?” Sherlock questioned rapidly.

“Slow down, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade urged, taking a drag from his pipe. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything as of yet. You’ll have to come down to the station. The officer reports should be in by the time you’re finished here.”

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock sighed agitatedly, checking his pocket watch. “Who is working tonight. Smith? Connors? Tell me it isn’t Jenkins. He’s slower than that Andersen fellow.”

“Jenkins retired last month. Connors is still recovering from whooping cough, and Smith is on holiday,” Lestrade reminded him. “It’s the new doc tonight. I don’t think you two have worked together yet. Smart chap. No nonsense. You should get along just fine as long as you remember to behave yourself and let the man work.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sherlock muttered incredulously.

“Oh, beggin’ your pardon, Miss.” Lestrade tipped his hat to Molly as she came to join them, having paid the cab driver, requesting that he wait for them. “Inspector Lestrade, at your service.”

She looked up at the inspector bowing slightly to her and had to fight to suppress a burst of laughter from escaping her lips at the sight of his massive sideburns.

“Molly Hooper,” she managed, dipping her head in what she hoped appeared to be ladylike modesty and not an attempt to school herself from laughing in his face. Or rather at what was on his face.

“Yes, yes. Very good. Pleasantries aside, there is still a murder to solve,” Sherlock said impatiently, making his leave towards the morgue.

Lestrade ignored him. “Hooper, you say? No kidding. Oh, yes, I can see it in the eyes! What a small world. You must be his sister then,” Lestrade remarked.

“Mmhm,” Molly hummed distractedly, glancing back at Sherlock’s departing form.

She nodded to Lestrade, excusing herself before hurrying off to catch up with the impatient detective.

Out of sight of the detective, Molly’s suppressed laughter bubbled to the surface, despite her best efforts to control herself.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, wondering what had gotten into her.

“H-has he always had those?” Molly giggled, gesturing to her cheeks to mimic the Inspector’s facial hair.

Sherlock blinked, a small smirk crinkling the corners of his eyes in amusement as he glanced back towards the entrance where they had left the Inspector.

“You should see Watson’s mustache,” he replied.

Molly’s giggles turned to a burst of laughter. She shook her head as she tried to imagine just how ridiculous a mustache must be to begin to rival the mutton chops she had just seen. 

She slowed her pace, trying to catch her breath and refocus herself on the case. As they advanced further down the hall she could feel herself becoming a bit light headed.

How long had it been since she’d eaten?

Molly swallowed, resting a hand against the cool stone wall to steady herself, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath; an effort that should not have been as difficult as it was. She felt as if a stiff wind could knock her right over.

A gasp escaped her lips as she opened her eyes to see her hand beginning to flicker and fade out and back in before her.

“Sh-Sherlock,” she called out, her voice trembling.

“Now is not the time to fall behind, Molly. We’re just getting started,” Sherlock said teasingly over his shoulder, now several paces in front of of her, placing a hand on the door into the morgue.

He stopped short as he turned to her, the smiling slipping from his face as he saw her steps falter.

“Molly?” he breathed, the door to the morgue creaking shut as he rushed to her side, catching her as he legs gave way beneath her.

His hand flew to her cheek as he held her up, eyes wide as he took in her features, ebbing and flowing between being solid and transparent. His gaze flicked from her to the door leading into the morgue and back.

“We need to get you out of here,” he said firmly. “Now.”

Molly nodded weakly, attempting to stand.  

She managed a few labored steps, his arm propped under her shoulders, before her strength gave way.

She felt herself drift back into consciousness as Sherlock swept her up into his arms.

He glanced back at the door once more before resolutely turning away, rushing her towards the entrance.

 

“Good Lord, what happened?” Lestrade asked in astonishment.

“Molly has fallen ill. I need to get her home right now,” Sherlock responded as he loaded her into the cab.

“Should I get the doctor?” Lestrade suggested, concerned.

“No. I will take care of her. I just need to get her home,” Sherlock dismissed, urging the driver to hurry as he himself climbed in the cab.

Lestrade watched in bewilderment as they rode away.

 

Sherlock cradled her to his chest as the cab bumped and rattled down the cobblestone streets, flying towards Baker Street.

Molly let her eyes drift shut as she rested her head against his collarbone, feeling drained but steadily more stable as her limbs solidified, her breathing becoming more even.

She mumbled a half hearted assurance that she was feeling better, attempting to sit up as the cab slowed to a stop.

Sherlock aquiested hesitantly, easing her out of the cab.

Molly managed a few wobbling steps towards the door of Baker Street before Sherlock scooped her up again, carrying her the rest of the way up to his flat.

Her weak insistence that she could manage fell on deaf ears as he carried her across the length of his sitting room and up the makeshift steps leading up to his mantel, swinging the two of them carefully through the mirror, landing gracefully in her flat.

Giving up on convincing him to let her walk, Molly directed him to her bedroom door.

He laid her gently on her daisy print bedspread, kneeling beside her with his eyes full of concern. And perhaps something akin to fear.

She smiled weakly, taking his hand.

“Well, that was an adventure,” she chuckled.

Sherlock’s lips twitched briefly into a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

Molly leaned back against her head board, closing her eyes. “Sorry that you didn’t get to go in the morgue.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Molly shrugged slightly. “Well, at least we know the autopsy notes will be done properly.”

“So that was…”

“Yes. Yes it was me on the other side of that door.” Molly nodded, trying to sit up, feeling her strength returning slowly.

“I see,” Sherlock replied quietly after a moment, considering this.

“It was the strangest thing,” Molly continued. “I kept getting these flashes. They were hazy...just snippets and...and feelings. Moments that I’ve never experienced, but at the same time they felt as if they were mine. They were memories and feelings from another life but it somehow was still _mine_.” She smiled a bit to herself, running a hand along the hair at the base of her neck. “Man that wig was itchy…”

“What?” Sherlock asked, confused by her last statement.

“I was wearing a wig... The Molly in the morgue, I mean. I could feel it, when we were just outside the door,” Molly explained. “It was only for a moment...but I guess I was close enough that the me that exists in there and I began to merge and I could feel what she felt…”

Sherlock nodded, still holding her hand. “You got too close so time tried to correct itself by merging one timeline’s Molly with another.”

“I guess meeting yourself would count as a paradox,” Molly agreed.

Sherlock stared thoughtfully at her floorboards, processing all of this.

Now that her head was clear, she was struck by how out of place he seemed kneeling next to her brightly colored bedspread and modern home assembly furnishings in his Victorian finery.   

Molly reached to smooth a loose curl back into place, letting her hand rest momentarily on his cheekbone, drawing his eyes back to her own.

“You should get back to the case,” she murmured.

Sherlock began to protest but she cut him off.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Really. I’m going to be alright. I can manage,” she assured him. She pressed her lips together before adding “Thank you for saving me.”

He smiled softly. “No timeline should be without Molly Hooper.”

“Or Sherlock Holmes,” she added.

He studied her face, taking in her features as he considered and reconsidered what to say. Squeezing her hand gently, he stood and made his way towards the door.

He paused in the doorway, turning to her. “Until next time, Molly Hooper.”

“Until then, Sherlock Holmes,” she agreed. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He smiled wistfully. “Never for long,” he assured her before closing her bedroom door behind him.

Molly listened as his footsteps faded away, closing her eyes with a sigh, replaying the events of the night in her head, trying to process what had happened as best she could.

While she felt much better than she had in the morgue, her muscles still felt fatigued from the night’s ordeal.

She sat up to ready herself for bed, the fabric around her rustling with her movement. She looked down and groaned as she realized that she still wore Anthea’s dress. Gathering all the mental strength she could muster, she set about removing the intricate layers in exchange for her own pajamas.


	7. Time to reflect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's morning goes unexpectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this about wraps it up for this fic. Thanks for all of those of you who stuck with it throughout the gaps in updates. I wrote it because you as readers asked for it. Hope you've enjoyed the ride! 
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.  
> Please leave your thoughts in the comments! I love hearing from you.

Molly glanced at the mirror above her mantel on her way out the door for work, wondering about the world she had left on the other side. And the life of the Molly Hooper that belonged to that world.  

It was a surreal feeling, thinking back on the memories of the night before, especially as she stepped out onto the street she knew so well. The sounds of the construction crew working as people whizzed past on their bikes and wandered by with their cell phones in front of them, navigating around the closed off street and on to their daily lives. It was all part of the life she knew...and yet somewhere on the other side of her mirror she was also _there_ , living her life, albeit a somewhat different life. Who knows how many lifetimes she had experienced, how many times she had been reflected throughout history, throughout time…and who she had shared those lives with...

The sound of the wrecking ball crashing into the building drew her out of her musings and back to the time and place she was in presently. She stood frozen in the middle of the street as she looked up to see the manager from Speedy’s rushing out of the store, cursing at the frenzied construction crew as they ran about attempting to halt construction. Through the settling dust and debris, she could make out the wrecking ball sitting lodged not in its intended target of the dilapidated building across the street, but in the gaping hole that had moments before been her living room window.

Her jaw hung open as a gasp caught in her throat, realization setting in as she looked on, rooted in place as the frenzied chaos moved around her.

“I guess they were serious about the warnings for all those allergy medications,” a familiar baritone mused behind her.

Molly turned, coming face to face with the man she had come to know so well.

“Then again, they likely meant one shouldn’t drive a car while medicated, but a wrecking ball certainly does call to mind the mental image of heavy machinery, don’t you think?”

He stood assessing the damage with a casual interest, his hands tucked in the pockets of his black belstaff. The dark curls she had seen hints of the night before now hung in a halo about his head, free of their confinements.

His clothes were modern and well tailored. His eyes seemed younger, having faced a different lifetime, different hardships, yet beyond them lived the same soul. Yes, there was no doubt in her mind that he was every bit the same man at his core as the detective who had held her the night before.

He turned to her, offering her a friendly half smile. “Sherlock Holmes--”

“Consulting detective,” Molly murmured in unison with him, hardly believing her eyes.

Sherlock quirked an intrigued eyebrow at her, prompting her to add quickly. “I, um, came across your study on ash the other day at work.” She blinked and looked down shyly, realizing that she must have been staring.

“I’m Molly. Molly Hooper,” she managed, offering her hand.

He paused briefly, looking her over before he shook her hand. “And what did you think of my analysis, Molly Hooper?”

Molly found herself smiling at the sound of her name on his lips, spoken the same way as when she had first heard it from his Victorian self.

“Um, good. Rather intriguing as a start. I’d be interested to see what other results you might find using more advanced equipment. Your notes seemed to imply your lab set up was fairly basic.” She closed her eyes, remembering where she had been heading before, turning to look back up at her flat with a groan. “I need to call my boss…” she sighed under her breath.

He nodded understandingly, looking back up at the wrecking ball.

“Mrs. Hudson is going to have a field day with this mess when she gets back from the market,” Molly predicted, dialing on her mobile.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Best to wait until after she’s had one of her soothers to ask for a favor.”

Molly chuckled despite the anxious feeling she felt as she stared up at the damage. “Might be awhile before the flats are move in ready again.”

“Perhaps it’s better that I’m asking her to hold a flat for me then. Repairs should be done well before I return to society come summer,” he assessed. “You, on the other hand will likely need to make other arrangements.”

“No kidding,” Molly breathed, listening as the phone rang. Struck by his candid words, she asked, confused, “Return to society?”

Sherlock nodded, lifting a slightly shaky hand to his lips as he lit a cigarette. “My release from the ‘wellness center’ has been scheduled for some time in June, or so I’ve been told…”

Molly’s hand hovered at her ear as she looked him over, this time with a more medical eye.

Shaking hands, though he was doing his best to control it. Dilated pupils. Beads of sweat dotting his pale brow…

Drug withdrawal.

He was hiding it well, wanting to put on a good front for Mrs. Hudson, but the symptoms were still there, even if he was out of the woods enough to be out and about rather than curled up on the bathroom floor.

“I see,” she replied thoughtfully. “Well, I...I hope it helps. There’s no shame in it, you know. We all need a little help now and then.”

Sherlock looked at her, surprised by the sentiment, but before he could reply Molly heard Mike’s voice on the other end of her mobile, drawing her attention away. “Yes, sorry. Hi, Mike, it’s Molly. I’m, um… I’m going to be a bit late coming into the lab today…”

Molly excused herself and started walking towards the door to inspect the damage inside as she talked, doing her best to explain what had happened to her flat to Mike.

Sherlock stood, watching as she went before he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Billy,” he greeted the young man that belonged to his homeless network.

“Morning, sir,” Billy replied. “You asked me to give you this last night.”

Sherlock took the folded scrap of paper that was handed to him, puzzled. “I gave this to you?”

“Yessir. You caught me on the street, dressed all fancy like you’d been at one of those costume parties or somethin’. You just handed me that note and said to ‘be sure this gets to Sherlock Holmes,’ and then you were gone. Bit strange, even for you. Must have been some case, eh?”

“Must have,” Sherlock murmured. “Thank you, Billy.”

“Any time, Sir.” Billy nodded and loped down the street on his way.

Sherlock looked the note over, bewildered by the unfamiliar scrap of paper that bore his own distinct scrawl. Discarding his cigarette, he opened it and began to read.

 

Molly tread lightly as she opened the door into her flat. The wrecking ball sat lodged with it’s top half squarely where her windows had been, a smattering of glass and dust around it on the floor. It was messy, certainly, but at least there hadn’t been anything of value along that wall. An upside to having put off decorating, she supposed. Aside from what would be a massive hole in her wall, Molly sighed with relief as things seemed to be overall still in order.

Her heart sank as she turned to see the back of the mirror face down on the floor in front of the fireplace.

She strode across the floor, kneeling carefully as she lifted the frame with bated breath. As she feared, the mirror had been completely shattered by the fall. She let out a ragged breath, setting the frame back down as she sat back on her heels and ran a hand over her hair.

Just then a scrap of paper sitting in front of the fireplace caught her eye. She leaned over to retrieve it, standing as she read the familiar scrawl.

_Thank you, Molly. For everything._

She pressed her eyes closed with a sigh, rubbing her thumb across the paper.

She looked from the mirror on the floor to the door, unsure what to think. It was all so much to take in...

Pulling herself together with sniff, she pocketed the note and went in search of a broom and dustpan.

 

When she finally descended the stairs, Molly caught sight of Mrs. Hudson bidding a fond farewell to Sherlock. She smiled softly to herself at the maternal display, but kept her head down, not wanting to interrupt.

However, Molly was no match for Mrs. Hudson’s keen eye as she heard the older woman say pleasantly, “Oh Molly dear! I’m glad I caught you. I had a word with the foreman earlier. He has agreed to cover all the repair expenses for us, plus any other projects we might have as a result of the damage.”

“Oh,um, that’s great. I was just going to the hardware store for a tarp to cover things up. I’ll, um...be sure to save my receipt,” Molly replied as she brushed passed.

“Good thinking dear,” Mrs. Hudson agreed. “I might have a few of them put up some shelves for me. I don’t really need them, but there’s something about a man in a tool belt, don’t you think?”

She gave her a wink before disappearing back into her flat, leaving Molly and Sherlock standing alone in the entryway.

“Get things all settled, then?” Molly asked after a moment, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“Yes, I believe so,” Sherlock answered, clasping his hands behind his back.

Molly nodded. “Good. I’m glad. I, um, I guess I’ll see you around. Once you’re back, I mean.”

He watched her intently as she began to walk away, as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Molly, before you go,” he interjected, causing her to turn back around.

He withdrew a notepad from his pocket, scribbling as he closed the distance between them to stand in the doorway with her.

“I know a man with some flats available to rent, since yours is currently more open to the elements than you might prefer. Call this number. Tell Tim that Sherlock referred you. He owes me a favor. Should get you a good rate.”

He ripped the paper out and handed it to her as he walked out the door.

“Oh! Th-thank you.” Molly stared at the paper in her hand and out at the departing detective.

 

Sherlock began to climb into the back of the waiting black car when he heard Molly call out after him.

He paused, looking up to see her rushing from the door out to the curb to meet him.

“I, um,” she began, coming to stand beside him. “I just wanted to thank you before you go. So…”

She hesitated a moment before standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Surprised by the gesture of gratitude, Sherlock turned his head slightly as she lifted herself up, her lips landing softly near the corner of his mouth.

Molly pulled away, blushing slightly at the misplaced kiss, but willed herself to look up at him.

“Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Maybe you can come visit me at the lab sometime once you’re better.”

“Um, yeah, sure,” Sherlock replied, befuddled as he watched Molly step away from the car. “But I don’t know where that is…”

Molly smiled, backing up to start on her way down the street. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure out how to find me. After all, you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

She gave him a little wave as she turned away, murmuring to herself “You always do.”

Sherlock watched her go until the driver returned from Speedy’s, alerting him it was time to go.

Sherlock nodded, climbing back into the car.

As they drove away, he pulled the note from his coat pocket, reading it as his hand absently went to the place where her lips had been.

_Find Molly Hooper._

_Look after her. Keep her close._

_She matters more than you could ever imagine._

 

John sat sipping his tea in the overstuffed chair he had unofficially claimed as his own during his time in the familiar flat, recently returned from his honeymoon. He couldn’t help but notice that his friend seemed to be listening to his stories even less than normal, as he stared absently, deep in thought with his fingers pressed lightly against the surface of the mantle mirror.

Attempting to draw his friends attention back to the present, John cleared his throat and asked, “Any interesting cases while Mary and I were away, Holmes?”

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed. “Oh, yes, Watson, there was one. Mr. Blake of the Diogenes club was murdered a few days ago.”

“Really? By whom?” John wondered, sitting forward.

“His wife and her lady’s maid. It would seem that Mr. Blake had an affair with the maid’s younger sister who had come to work in the household for the summer. When the young lady found she was with child, he fired her and refused to acknowledge the child, threatening to ruin her reputation if she spoke out. Mrs. Blake and her maid confronted him, eventually taking justice into their own hands. The maid and her sister have fled to America, Mrs. Blake to Spain. Scotland Yard is in the process of tracking them down now, but I sincerely doubt they will find them.”

“Goodness,” John breathed, setting down his tea cup. “That does sound like quite the case. It sounds as though you’ve managed without us just fine though.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, well, I had a little help.”

He turned back toward the mirror, when he noticed a small note tucked in amongst the skull on his mantle.

Furrowing his brow, he picked it up, inspecting it as he opened the seal.

 

_Dearest Brother mine,_

_I know I vowed not to interfere in your affairs, but in this case I felt I had to make an exception. You simply would not have gotten there on your own. But now that you’ve had some time to reflect, I trust that you can handle things from here on out without me pulling the strings. You’ve seen what you need to see. You know where you need to go. The rest is up to you._

_Don’t keep her waiting - EH_

 

“Note from Mycroft?” John asked, coming up behind him to read over his shoulder after having waited several moments in silence.

“Hm? Um, yes,” Sherlock replied, folding the note casually. “Just a reminder. The new doctor at St. Bartholomew’s had some particularly helpful insights to offer for this latest case. It is time that I go down to the morgue to thank them personally and introduce myself. I anticipate I will be working with Doctor Hooper exclusively in the future.”

“I see,” John replied, watching as his friend gathered his coat. “I’ll be right with you then. I’d like to meet them myself.”

 _Getting a personal thank you from Sherlock Holmes for insights on a case. This Doctor Hooper must be a rare talent indeed,_ John thought to himself as he followed on Sherlock’s heels out the door.

 

July 2, 2010

 

Molly had just finished preparing the body of their latest John Doe for Detective Lestrade and was busy filling out the paperwork when she heard the DI walk in.

“So what are we working with, Molly?” Lestrade asked.

“John Doe. Cause of death, asphyxiation. Victim was found strangled in a hotel suite by the cleaning crew. The name given at the desk was Blake Richards but it was a false identity,” Molly replied, not bothering to look up as she finished writing her last few notes on the clipboard.

“The weapon was his own neck tie, wasn’t it?” a familiar voice asked.

Molly looked up in surprise to see Sherlock standing behind Lestrade, looking the picture of health in a suit and white button down shirt.

“Y-yeah it was. Hi.” Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as a smile bloomed across her face.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied. “It would seem that I found you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did,” Molly laughed shyly.

She stood there smiling up at him for a moment before Sherlock asked “Anything of note to go on?”

Molly remembered herself and approached the body with him, moving the sheet down. “Our killer is likely female, judging by the bruise patterns on the wrists. Other than that it was a clean job. No visible evidence was left on his clothing or at the scene.”

Sherlock nodded, looking the body over. “Likely a jilted lover. What about perfume?”

Molly smiled despite herself. It was all becoming too familiar. “Chanel. His clothes are being tested up in the lab. But there were noticeable traces of Chanel when they brought him in.”

“Well that’s a start,” Sherlock said, straightening with a satisfactory smile. “Lestrade cross reference the man’s credit cards. Look for anything that may link him to someone with the surname Blake. This man would want to keep an alias something he could remember. I’ll look over the crime scene. That is if your team hasn’t ruined it by now.”

“My team does just fine, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied defensively.

“Is Anderson leading today?” Sherlock retorted.

Lestrade sighed and shook his head, dismissing Sherlock with a wave of his hand.

Sherlock smirked. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be in touch.”

He strolled out but turned in the doorway to add, “Oh and Molly?”

“Yeah?” Molly asked.

“If that offer still stands, I’d like to come by the lab later to run some tests of my own on ‘Mr. Blake’s’ clothing. 5 o’clock work for you?”

“Um, yeah sure. That’s fine.” Molly nodded, clutching her clipboard to her chest.

“Wonderful.” With a nod to them both he was out the door.

Lestrade looked from the door to Molly, bewildered at what had transpired. “I’m sorry, do you two know each other?” he asked finally.

“We met briefly last fall. But Sherlock’s one of those people that it seems like you’ve known them a lifetime I suppose,” Molly replied, smiling to herself before remembering her paperwork and returning to the task at hand.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Lestrade chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see you around.”

“Alright. Take care, Greg,” Molly replied, already back to work.

  _Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. Now there’s a pair for you,_ he thought to himself with a smile.

He'd certainly be interested in seeing how that friendship played out. 


End file.
